Page 81 of The Grand Mistletoe Assembly
Crunch. Snap.
Again and again.
Wolfgang got off the armchair and looked at the bag. Still half full. “Are you going to crack and eat all of this tonight?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Crunch. Snap.
“You hate those seeds, don’t you?”
“What?”
“You hate them. They’re being punished for something. You’re quite aggressive about it, too. And I’m trying to read here. It’s outright killing my nerves.”
“Eh.” She looked back at the fire.
Crunch. Snap.
Wolfgang had endured enough. This had to stop. He grabbed the bag and tied the string to close it. “You’re going to tell me why you hate the seeds so much. And then you’ll let me go through these ledgers.”
“First, I don’t hate the seeds. It’s not their fault they stem from the middle of those huge yellow heads with frayed petals. Pah!”
He sat. This was going to be fun. A prima ballerina pretending to be his wife, who spoke with a heavy rolling R when she was angry. And she hated sunflowers. He laughed.
“Sunflowers aren’t funny!” she scolded him.
He sobered and covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh no, they’re quite serious, indeed. Those evil round things with green leaves and … why do you hate them so much?”
“You can make many delicious foods out of them. Bread, oil, even sweet pastes.” She was flushed and her hair hung loosely around her face, the ends still wet and curly from her bath. She was rather beautiful and smelled of soap and something sweet.
“That’s atrocious because …” he nudged her on.
“Because they were chasing me for days, and I was hungry. When I finally hid in a field of sunflowers, not one of them was ripe. Do you know the pain of hunger, Baron?” She emphasized the last word, mocking his noble status.
“I’m sorry.” He walked to a bellpull near the bed and pulled the string. “I rang for some food. Not sure what we have in the house, but the butler will bring you a tray soon.”
* * *
“Thank you.”She warmed to him and thought that was more dangerous than scheming and even living with him. This strange Prussian baron. “Why aren’t you married, Baron?”
“Stop calling me Baron. We’ve been over this. Wolfgang, please.”
“All right, Wolfgang. I understand you’re stubborn, but surely that’s not the only reason you aren’t wed?”
He turned his gaze to the flickering in the mantelpiece. The bedroom was comfortable enough, but there was only one enormous bed and they hadn’t discussed who’d sleep in it tonight. He was leaning on one arm, and she noticed his hand had turned bluish-purple.
She nodded at it. “Is it because you’re unwell?”
He straightened and rubbed his hand. White spots appeared on the flesh where he’d pressed the purple away. “I haven’t gone to bloodletting since I arrived in England.”
“I see. Are you dying?”
“No! Do I look like a man on his deathbed?”
She looked him over, and her gaze lingered on his muscular chest and colossal frame. She shook her head.
“I’m going to bed.” He stalked to the bed.
